His Last Vow
by lDLETEEN
Summary: Spoilers for 3x3. How "His Last Vow" could have ended. Johnlock one-shot.


**Disclaimer: obviously I do not own any of the characters of the BBC Sherlock series. The beginning of this text has dialogue lifted from the episode "His Last Vow", so the credit there is not mine. The ad-libbing and alternate ending are products of my imagination.**

**This was something fairly quick I wrote without too much thought, just for entertainment purposes (aka to make my best friends cry. I succeeded.) I've only just delved into the heart wrenching fandom of Sherlock/Johnlock so excuse me if there are any errors. Anyway... The game is on!**

* * *

The late afternoon air was bitter and cold, not much unlike my mood. The sky was clear but my mind was anything but. I could hardly believe that my life had come to this. What would I tell John when he arrived? I glanced over my shoulder at the ostentatious white jet behind me, all set to fly me to my doom. Mycroft described it as a 'six-month mission', however we both knew I was intelligent enough to recognise that I would not be making a return. Not this time.

I heaved in a deep breath, the icy air biting at my lungs, before facing the front once again. Mycroft was stood beside me, his token umbrella planted between his feet. Neither of us spoke a word. I had nothing to say to him. My own brother, my flesh and blood, was sending me across the continent indefinitely. I likened myself to Hamlet being shipped to England to die, but with less angst.

I felt a sense of acceptance, somewhere deep in the recesses of my mind. Yet I couldn't quite shake the anxiety I felt at seeing John for the final time. How could I say goodbye after everything I had put him through? I feared he wouldn't believe me and would think that I'd just reappear at an inconvenient moment. I swallowed hard. I wouldn't be donning my Sharpie moustache and French accent this time.

I was snapped out of my reverie as I heard the distant hum of a car approaching the landing strip. The sleek black car reflected the wintry sunlight and made me squint slightly. My stomach lurched suddenly as I watched John step out of the car, all five-feet-five of him ambling ungracefully as a perfect juxtaposition against the car's elegance. I maintained my passive expression, standing like a soldier at ease but with my back a little stiffer. No amount of internal monologue could prepare me for what I had to do now.

Mary slid out of the car too, a seemingly inappropriate smile etched on her face as she slammed the door and strode right towards me. One would expect to feel distaste towards the woman that shot you in the chest - however, I couldn't make myself feel that towards Mary. She loved John and that was important to me. Everything that happened was essential for me to fulfil my vow. My last vow.

"You will look after him for me, won't you?" I muttered, as she stepped towards me and enveloped me in a hug. Her pillar-box-red coat was loud but the scene was so quiet. I hugged her back awkwardly, hopefully conveying everything I needed to in the pat of her back. She smiled and kissed my cheek.  
"Don't worry. I'll keep him in trouble." I could feel her smile against my cheek and my heart was momentarily lifted, before plummeting to the depths of my stomach once again. Oh, how I was going to miss getting into trouble with John Watson.

"That's my girl," I smiled with more kindness than I'd probably ever smiled at a woman in my life. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I was reminded of all the times I had ignored Molly Hooper in her desperate attempts to gain my approval. I wished I hadn't been so cold towards her now, even though it was far too late for those types of regrets.

Mary stepped backwards with a sad smile and returned to John's side, linking his arm in a gesture of support. I felt nervous right to my bones. I wasn't ready to say goodbye yet. John looked as awkward as I felt; I was glad that I was a master of concealing my emotions on the rare occasion that I felt any.

I turned aside to Mycroft, my scheming, brilliant brother, and lowered my voice slightly. "Since this is likely to be the last conversation I'll have with John Watson," I began monotonously. "Would you mind if we took a moment?" I wasn't really asking, but I felt I must continue the pleasantries to make this farewell as painless as possible. Mycroft raised his eyebrows in graceful surprise before nodding to his crony, signalling for him to step aside. Mary followed them without instruction. I noted my eternal gratitude for her understanding at this moment. I also noted that she was completely oblivious to what I really wanted to say to her husband. I agreed it was best she wasn't around to hear it.

John stepped towards me with a forced smile. I knew it was forced, but I wondered how authentic he thought it looked. "So, here we are," he stated. He cleared his throat as he always did when he was finding it difficult to talk about something. Usually about how he was feeling. I wanted to smile and hug him and encapsulate every part of this man forever. Saying goodbye was a task I wanted to do less and less as the seconds passed.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes," I said. Of course, he looked perplexed.

"Sorry?"

"That's the whole of it. If you're looking for baby names." He chuckled and I committed the sound to memory.

"No, we've had a scan. We're pretty sure it's a girl." Even in his anger towards Mary, which I was certain wouldn't fade for a long while, he couldn't hide the sense of pride in his voice at the mention of his prospective daughter. I envied how much he had left to live for.

"Oh," I breathed. I felt if I spoke any louder I may have betrayed my emotions. Truthfully, I wanted to curl up and cry for the first time since I was a small child. My heart shattered at the idea of not being here to see John become a father. I knew in my soul that he would be the most fantastic father, judging by the kind of friend he had turned out to be. His daughter was going to be the luckiest girl in the world. "Okay."

We shifted around uncomfortably for a minute. I knew I was running short on time but I hadn't formulated exactly what I wanted to say.

"Yeah… Yeah, actually, I can't think of a single word to say," John said hurriedly, echoing my exact thoughts.

"No, neither can I," I blinked.

"The game is over," he muttered. I wanted to be sick. He was really saying goodbye. Our games were really over.

"The game is never over, John," I said defiantly. How could he say that? How could he so nonchalantly end everything we had become? "But there may be some new players now." Of course I couldn't deny that I would not be around to continue the game. "It's okay. The east wind takes us all in the end."

"What's that?"

"It's a story my brother told me when we were kids. The east wind's this terrifying force that lays waste to all in its path," I sniffed. "Seeks out the unworthy and plucks them from the earth. That was generally me."  
"Nice," John muttered sarcastically. I knew he thought I was being dramatic. Perhaps I was.

"He was a rubbish big brother."

John cleared his throat again. I was conscious of time, but I suspected even Mycroft would not dare interrupt us. I didn't care to admit it, but my elder brother knew me better than most people. I knew he knew that I needed this time more than anything. My imminent death overseas could wait just a little bit longer.

"So what about you, then? Where are you actually going now?"

I took a deep breath, contemplating how to explain it to him delicately. I couldn't even look at his face; my stomach lurched at the sight of him. These foreign feelings made me uneasy. "Oh, some undercover work in Eastern Europe," I replied with a certain aloofness I knew he would see through. I preferred to seem like I didn't care. Oh, but I cared. I cared so much.

"For how long?" he probed. There came that urge to roll up and cry again.

"Six months, my brother estimates." I was lying through my teeth. To John Watson, of all people. The most brilliant man I had ever known. How did I have the audacity? I'd lied to him once before, for two years, and he still managed to forgive me. I supposed I couldn't bear to leave him with thoughts of hatred towards me. I would rather leave in ignorance. "He's never wrong."

"And then what?" I looked John in the eyes hesitantly. I wanted him to see what I was trying to say. Surely he could read me after all the time we had spent together? I could read him like a book, a very open book with impossibly large text. But then again, who couldn't I read? I knew everything about everyone from a single glance. I only wished John could do the same to me, so I wouldn't have to voice the most difficult words of my life.

"Who knows?" I answered noncommittally. I couldn't look at him anymore. I knew we'd have to wrap this conversation up.

He turned away from me and my heart constricted. I drank in everything about him - his hair spattered with silver, giving away his age slightly but not at all detracting from his looks. His face was aged from the battlefield, from the horrors he had seen and experienced and I wanted to erase every one of those stresses. "John, there's something…" I trailed off as he looked up at me. His expression betrayed his annoyance at me. It seemed that John Watson was always annoyed at me. There was something addictive about it; I knew that I had the power to evoke some emotion in him, even if it was pure irritation. "…I should say, er… I've meant to say always and I never have. Since it's unlikely we'll ever meet again, I might as well say it now." Everything hurt. Everything inside me hurt. I could feel my stomach sloshing around and the bile threatening to rise. Saying goodbye had never hurt so much. I was in agony.

He was looking at me expectantly, his signature frown of confusion creasing the space between his eyes. I wanted to say it - those words. Those words I never thought I would say to another human being, let alone a man, let alone a man that had some to somehow be my best friend. My only best friend. My only friend. As I went to let the words leap from my mouth, different words took their place. "Sherlock is actually a girl's name." John groaned exasperatedly. Even he knew now wasn't the time for joking. But I knew it was my defence mechanism. Every cell in my body was against me feeling the way I did for John Watson.

He began laughing and I couldn't hide my smile. I wanted to take his face in my hands and watch him grin like that forever. What had he made me into? "It's not," he chuckled, as if I needed the clarification. I smiled sheepishly.  
"It was worth a try."

"We're not naming our daughter after you."

"Mm, I think it could work." He laughed again. I was elated that I could not only annoy him, but make him laugh too.

He looked at me and I knew he knew our time was over. I offered my hand to him, which he clasped with his own. "To the very best of times, John," I said with as much positivity as I could manage. My heart was like lead in my chest. We stood hand in hand for a moment and I wished I never had to let go. I wished that I had had the courage to take his hand a long time ago, but for a different reason. I wished I could tell him how he had changed my life. This was my opportunity, my final chance, but like the coward I was, I gave his hand one last firm shake and turned to leave.

I had taken two steps before John yanked my hand back. I looked at him in both surprise and confusion. "You're not telling me you're going to leave, just like that," he questioned, his eyes tight. I wondered what it was that he expected me to say. "After everything? Really, Sherlock?"

I wanted to punch him for making this so hard. "John…"

"No, Sherlock, you are my best friend. You're the most brilliant, intelligent, annoying bloody git I have ever known. You're not leaving for six months, or eight months, or two bloody years without a proper goodbye. I can't let you go for that long again without knowing I said all I had to say to you."

I was aware our hands were still clasped to each other. I relished the feeling.

"John, there's too much I would like to say to you. There's too much I want to say right now, but would be utterly unfair of me to say and then disappear. It's… It's probably best if you just let me go."

He squinted his eyes at me. I wanted to sob at the hurt in his eyes. He thought I _wanted_ to leave. How could I ever want to leave you, John? How could I ever do so out of choice? My subconscious screamed at me. I'd never forgive myself if I didn't tell him, but I just couldn't.

"Tell me. Tell me now. You don't know what I went through, Sherlock. When you were dead. I hadn't felt…" his words faltered as he cleared his throat several times, trying to regain his bravery. "I hadn't felt anything like that since I was in Afghanistan. Losing you… Losing you felt as bad as seeing your mates shot down dead in front of you. I watched you fall from the roof of St. Bart's and I saw your crippled body on the floor," his voice was growing louder and more hysterical. I didn't want to cause a scene in front of Mary and especially not in front of Mycroft. "I took your pulse, Sherlock and you were dead. I cried at your grave. Then you sauntered back into my life with your bloody cheekbones and your bloody coat, collar up, thinking you're oh-so-bloody cool. I thought you were _dead_."

In a moment of sheer impulse, I pulled his hand so he fell into me, wrapping my arms around him. He was so much shorter than me that it was almost comical. He didn't resist me and I swear I felt him relax against me. I rested my chin atop his head and squeezed him. "I know. I'm sorry, John. I will never stop being sorry for that."

"I don't want you to go," he whispered against my chest. I don't know if he thought I didn't hear, but I heard it as clearly as though he had shouted it from the very roof of St. Bartholomew's hospital. "Don't leave me again, Sherlock. I can't… The baby, Mary, I… I can't do it-"

"Shh, yes you can, John. You can do anything. You're the bravest man I've ever met. Danger and uncertainty are in your blood. You can do anything. You can do anything." I assured him, over and over, blinking back the tears I could no longer fight.

"Don't go," he murmured desperately, clutching the front of my coat in his fists. Did he know how much he was breaking my ice cold heart? "I need you." My world felt as though it was caught in a whirlpool at that point. I couldn't bite back the words any longer. I had to tell him. I could sense Mycroft's agitation a few feet behind me. He would be packing me onto the jet in no less than two minutes, I estimated.

I pulled John to face me and clasped his face in my hands firmly. I stared straight at him and allowed the forbidden words to be shot into the brisk evening air. "John. John Watson. You have changed my life. You _saved_ my life. You have saved me in so many ways, John… Not just literally, like when you shot the taxi driver. You have saved me from myself. I have to tell you these things, John, because you and I both know you understand that I won't be returning from where I am going. I'm a murderer and Mycroft will ensure I pay for that. But I did it to save you. I vowed to keep you, Mary and your baby safe. But, John, I will selfishly admit: I did it for you. It has always been about you. Those two years, hiding from you, were the worst years of my life. I spent them contemplating how you could have imprinted yourself on me so much in such a short time. I missed you every second of those seven hundred and thirty days. I never thought it was possible to feel how I felt when I couldn't even send you a message to tell you that everything was okay."

John stared at me, open-mouthed, not even bothering to try and remain composed. I didn't blame him. Everything was coming out in a heavy, messy rush. "Until I met you, I wasn't sure who I was. I wasn't entirely sure what Sherlock Holmes was all about. Drugs were my vice. Cases were the only things that kept me occupied when I wasn't high or passed out. But you stumbled into my lab that day, searching for a flat mate and how could I have possibly passed up that opportunity? I feel like… Something… Something inside of me knew what you had to give me. Somewhere in my mind, I knew you would change me for the better. What… What I'm trying to tell you, John, is…" At that moment, Mycroft approached us and placed his hand on my shoulder, which I rudely shrugged off.

"Come now, Sherlock. I think that's quite enough."

"One more minute," I growled. "It's important." I hoped Mycroft could just do as he was goddamn told for once, this very last time. Although he wouldn't admit it, when it came to family Mycroft's sentiment was one of his major flaws. He took a few steps back but I could feel he was eyeing his watch. He wanted his murderer brother out of the country. Stat.

I looked at John once more, desperation seeping from every pore on my face. I was frantic now and did nothing to hide it. "John Hamish Watson," I smiled at his ridiculous name, to which his answering smile took my breath away. "John… You're the only friend I ever had. Thank you. Thank you for being you. I regret that we will never meet again, but know this: if I could only have met one person in my lifetime, it would have been you. It would always be you." He was tearing up, as was I, but I knew I was crying for a different reason. "I love you, John. More than you'll ever understand. You have Mary, I know. I know you are a married man. But I need to leave knowing that you fully understand what I'm trying to tell you. I love you," I punctuated every word with the last of my emotional resources. I could feel myself sagging under the weight of my words. He looked flabbergasted. "I never thought I would love a man. Girlfriends have never been my area, but… It seemed so impossible. You're impossible. Yet here you are, between my hands." I shook my head, the lump in my throat impossible to swallow. "Know that I love you, John Watson. I hope you tell your daughter about me. I hope you think about me from time to time, remembering the good times we had. I hope your daughter grows to be as great a person as you are. I hope she is reminded every day of her life what a wonderful man her father is."

I released his face from my grip and bit the inside of my lip, keeping my tears brimming in my eyes, refusing to let them fall. "Sherlock… I… I lo-"

I closed my eyes and shook my head. I took a final step forward and planted a kiss on John's lips, far too briefly, before stepping back and taking my final look. "Always remember."

With that, I turned and marched straight up the steps to the jet without looking back at any of them. I collapsed in my seat and only let the tears begin to fall when the door had been locked. I drew the blinds on the windows. I couldn't look at him again. Mycroft could burn in hell for all I cared. Mary… Mary had the baby. Mary and John had their daughter. I wanted them to be happy. But I needed him to know how I felt. I touched my fingers to my lips and made a new vow that was to be my last vow. I vowed mentally to never forget the feeling of John Watson's lips against mine. Even in death, I would never forget.


End file.
